


Magkasundo Tayo (kahit ngayon lang)

by threefouram



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Angst & Porn, English Narration & Filipino Dialogue, Gratuitous Smut, Kabanata 61: Ang Tugisan sa Lawa, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9829568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threefouram/pseuds/threefouram
Summary: ' His voice is low as he mutters, “Wala akong kayang ibigay sa iyo, Ginoo, ni araw o buwan, kahit bituin man lang.”Ibarra looks up at him, removing his head from the man’s collarbone. “Ang kailangan ko lang ay ikaw. Kailangan ko lang nang dahilang mabuhay pa— Elias.” There’s a brand of neediness that clings to the man’s words. (Ibarra chooses not to admit that he’s privileged, and yearns for the ability to empathize with the people he says to be fighting for— to empathize with his friend who has every right to be fighting for something, while he looks like a joke trying to.) 'or: in which Ibarra wants Elias, and Elias wants Ibarra safe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _EDIT (2018): Do not treat this fanfiction seriously. It's smut, and a little bit of angst._
> 
>  
> 
> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saaille).

“Hindi maaari!” Ibarra growls, low. “Hindi kita iiwanan nang ganito—”

Elias would like to laugh despite himself, but his words waver. “Ginoo,” he speaks, “Mahahanap nila tayo—”  _Tayo— tayo, tayo, tayo._

“Hayaan mo sila,” the other says sharply, his illustrado eyes glaring into the bangkero’s soul.

“Ginoo,” Elias’ enunciation shakes.

“May mali ba tayong ginagawa para tayo’y matakot kumilos?”

“May pakialam ba ang mga prayle sa tama? Hindi ba’t ang iyong ama—”

“Nasasaktan ka ba na ako’y isang Eibarramendia?”

“Ginoong Ibarra—” the man begins to protest. Ibarra stands, feels the boat sway slightly and goes down on his knees. “Ginoo,” the bangkero steers the boat against the current, “ano ang ginagawa niyo?” The air on the boat grows thicker with an unnamed force, he’s surprised they haven’t sunk yet.

“Mm?” he hums back, dazed and  _out of his mind_ , Elias is certain as Crisostomo Ibarra breathes, breathes right at his crotch. He keeps his voice in his throat and eyes on the water. He lets his hands grip the wooden oars a little tighter, moving as composed as he can with the hot breaths collecting between his legs. ( _Hot air rises_ , science dictates, and—  _rising_ , sure— that’s one way to describe his current predicament.

 _Mahahanap nila tayo_ , he thinks at Ibarra, loud, and frustrated, but only in his head. His heart jolts the blood in him twice as fast, every part of him feels red and hot all over.  _Hindi ako makasariling tao_ , is the mantra in his head—  _Ang aking bayan, aming bayan, ating bayan— Ang bayan, ang bayan, ang bayan._

But Crisostomo Ibarra, in all his honor, smirks smugly between the bangkero’s thighs, tongue swirling into the cloth. Elias has to stop the wooden boat, but he persists a steadfast kind of resistance for all but three seconds staring at the murky water swirling like—

  
Elias wants this.

“Elias,” the illustrado pants. The man in question looks down: a sight of one of the most educated men in San Diego on his knees. (One of the most  _engaged_  men in San Diego, at that.) “Elias,” again, in a looser tone that almost sounds like a breathy laugh, “Elias, kaibigan.”

 _Elias_ , he repeats in his head, exactly how the other man says it, all out of breath and euphoric.

Elias is caught between a rock and a hard place. In which, his morality clashes with his pining for the prestigious illustrado, and the latter is getting in the way of keeping Crisostomo Ibarra safe. In which, the backs of his knees are digging into the edge of the boat, (and still, he’s caught against a hard place.)

Then his length is exposed, in all its arousal, before it isn’t. His eyes widen by a fraction because  _oh_ — Is that Ibarra’s mouth— and,  _oh_ , it is. And  _oh_  is all he can think because,  _oh_ — This is actually happening and he’s not doing anything to stop this from happening, with the tip of his dick hitting the back of such an honorable illustrado’s throat— and  _oh_ —

Again with his tongue, swirling like he’s definitely-maybe done this before.

  
They need to keep going, right now. They needed to keep going  _two minutes ago_. All Elias wants to do is keep the man’s mouth on him and keep him safe— Why can’t he do both— “Ginoo,” comes in the most flustered, strained voice.

“Nghh…” Ibarra hums against the throb of his dick, palms finding its way easily to his own erection. Elias is so very certain now that this man knows what he’s doing, as he always does.

 _Maria Clara_ , he thinks.  _Ginoong Ibarra_ , his thoughts immediately say after, louder and yet softer. A surge of sympathy runs its course in his veins.

(Crisostomo Ibarra is an enemy of the church in more ways than one.)

“Ginoo,” he attempts further, eyes half-lidded.

Ibarra pulls off, lips still ghosting on the bangkero with vision slightly hazy as he looks up. “ _Elias_ ,” his throat scratches. He tugs at the edges of the man’s shirt, torn and filthy like the look in his eyes appear to be. They come tumbling down, Elias certain he’s going to get splintered if he doesn’t get shot first. The oars are forgotten at the foot of the boat as Ibarra moves swiftly, straddling him.

Elias refuses to make any motion or sound. He bites against his lip as Crisostomo Ibarra breathes, and bites at his neck. His cheeks are red, and the tips of his ears pink. Still, the movements of the illustrado are enough to generate between them enough friction for a spark.

“Ginoo,” he mewls, “si Maria Clara—”

Ibarra doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t falter, “—matututo ring magmahal ng iba.” His hands go all over the place, from the bangkero’s unruly, pitch black hair, to the dip in his waistline, back to his jawline, down to where his mouth used to be. His mouth morphs into a straight line as their eyes gravitate together. “Kung ayaw mo ang lahat na ito, magsabi ka lang, kaibigan. Hindi ako naniniwalang… Hindi ako naniniwala…”

( _Kaibigan_ , Elias muses to himself,  _Hindi alam ni Ginoong Ibarra ang ibig sabihin ng kaibigan_. The voice in his head is incredibly bitter.)

  
Ibarra’s murmurs fade as they grow desperate. He breathes lowly at Elias, lips sinking back into his skin. The other man stutters his movements beneath the touch, back thudding against the wooden vehicle.

(The boat is the world, at least in that moment.)

The water is fluid as Ibarra’s hands, his mouth. It mocks Elias, the swirling in his stomach and the spinning in his head.

“Hindi ko maibibigay ang buhay na nararapat sa iyong pamilya. Ang kaya ko lamang ibigay ay ang ngayon,” Ibarra tells him, lips brushing against his skin with every syllable, “Ang kaya ko lamang ay mahalin ka.”

Elias would like to tell him that he has no idea what he’s doing.  _Kung may pag-asa pa na tayo’y mabuhay, kailangan na nating—_

“Tigilan mo,” he moves his mouth behind Elias, hand on the back of his head and lips between the nape of his neck and his ear, “ang pagbibigay sa’kin ng ilaw habang ikaw ay nasa dilim.”

Elias holds his composure like it’s keeping him alive. His voice is low as he mutters, “Wala akong kayang ibigay sa iyo, Ginoo, ni araw o buwan, kahit bituin man lang.”

Ibarra looks up at him, removing his head from the man’s collarbone. “Ang kailangan ko lang ay ikaw. Kailangan ko lang nang dahilang mabuhay pa— Elias.” There’s a brand of neediness that clings to the man’s words. (Ibarra chooses not to admit that he’s privileged, and yearns for the ability to empathize with the people he says to be fighting for— to empathize with his friend who has every right to be fighting for something, while he looks like a joke trying to.)

  
Elias wants so much to discard the thoughts of civil guards, and the government, and the church, and the whole country. He goes as far as grabbing the illustrado, in all his nobility and pride, by his necktie and pulling him up towards his mouth. “Ginoong Ibarra—”

There’s a rough transition as the bangkero flips them over, and for a split second, Elias catches Ibarra’s lips by his teeth. Something snaps inside him. “Ginoo,” he says, “kailangan na nating umalis.” He stands, notices the way his blood does not cool down but makes no comment.

(Perhaps he was foolish to think Crisostomo Ibarra — stubborn, relentless,  _Crisostomo Ibarra_ — would leave it at that.)

The water they float on is not any clearer than it was minutes ago.

There is a needy mewl escaping Ibarra’s throat. Elias can only look away, except maybe he doesn’t want to.

The illustrado has beads of sweat trailing down his forehead. There is dampness on his crotch, fingers ghosting over himself as his back arches. His head is thrown back, shirt riding up halfway through his stomach. There is no lubrication in all of this, just friction— just the slack in his jaw, and the filthy thrust of his body, and the filthier moans that the bite on his tie does little to subdue.

  
“Ginoo, makikita nila tayo.”

“Mmngh…”

“Ginoo,” Elias tries again, keeping his vision on the water, on anything but Ibarra. “Ginoo, hindi nila tayo pwedeng makita—”

“ _Wala akong ginagawang masama_.”

(There’s an epiphany in Elias.  _May mali ba tayong ginagawa?_  rings in his head from the first time the illustrado had said it earlier. This isn’t about the people anymore— This was about Ibarra— Crisostomo Ibarra being stripped of everything because Crisostomo Ibarra is an enemy of the church in more ways than one. Ibarra can’t fight for a country if he can’t be Crisostomo Ibarra the way he’s supposed to be.)

“Ginoo.”

“Nghh…” Ibarra sounds, like the brief coherency in his words was nothing. His hips move in the same upward curve.

Elias does not know what to do.

He grumbles under his breath. Ibarra’s back is arched off the wooden boards with fingers rough against himself as his throat claws out a sound the bangkero did not know he could make— It renders Elias nearly frozen and useless.

(Perhaps Elias is not too level-headed after all. This man, an  _Eibarramendia_  of all people— Crisostomo Ibarra—)

There's a loud sound emanating from the man's mouth, like flames bursting into ashes. There is a string of words that follows, but Elias dismisses it as babble. (Truthfully, the friction between his legs is not as uncertain as he is.)

"Elias, Dios mio, hawakan mo ako."

  
Perhaps that’s all it took. The bangkero’s mouth dries for a second, but his body stumbles into the illustrado’s touch, and he can die happy in that moment, and he probably will. Everything goes still between them, but the water just keeps swaying underneath it all.

There is a curl of fingers inside of Ibarra, and to both men involved, it feels so extraordinary, and yet natural— (It feels like societal defiance, like this is a political statement against the government, like this will give them their country back.)

Elias swallows through the incoherencies flying out of his educated lips, muffles his mouth like he’s supposed to.

“Anong ginagawa niyo sa akin, Ginoo?” he whispers against the man’s skin. He has no control over his hand, moving in and out in twisting motions. Elias lets his free hand interlock with his hair. He pulls, just slightly, but it seems to be enough to send the illustrado over the edge as the bangkero keeps his fingers moving.

 _  
Gunshots. Crashing, crackling sounds_.

  
“Huwag mong kunin ang aking pagmamahal para sa aking bayan, ang pagmamahal na buong-diwa kong inaalay dito,” Elias warns. “Handang-handa kang tanggapin ng puso ko. Ngunit ito. Itong bayang ito ay nangangailangan ng pag-ibig na higit pa sa ating dalawa. Huwag ngayon, Ginoo.”

( _Ang kaya ko lamang ibigay ay ang ngayon_ , Elias remembers him saying. He breathes, and breathes, and breathes— until he reaches half a conclusion, open assurance that it’ll be okay.  _Ang oras ay isang konsepto lamang_.)

“Elias,” Ibarra persists, “kailangan kita.”

“Kailangan ka ng Pilipinas.”

“Kinakaya ba ng iyong utak, ng iyong puso, ang mga salitang iyong pinagsasabi? Ang bawat hiwalay ng iyong labi ay may handog na kababalaghan.”

“Ginoong Ibarra.”

“Tawagin mo akong Crisostomo, Elias.”

“Ginoong Ibarra, kailangan na nating gumalaw.”

“Hayaan mo silang mahanap tayo,” the man in question growls. “Hindi kita pababayaang mamatay nang ganito.”

“Hindi kita pababayaang mamatay,” Elias counters.

“Kahit kailan nalang ba’t hindi tayo magkakasundo?”

“Hindi ko sinasadya, Ginoo.”

“Crisostomo,” he corrects.

“Ginoong Ibarra,” Elias says, refusing to cross any more lines with the man.

  
Ibarra breathes in deeply. The air smells of fire and gunpowder, and he resigns to his fate at that moment. (He is Crisostomo Ibarra with Elias, and he would rather be Crisostomo Ibarra with Elias than nothing without Elias.) “Elias,” he begins, “Kailan ko kayo makikitang muli?” (Ibarra just needs to hear this again.)

“Kailanma’t kailangan ninyo,” Elias replies, just above a whisper. (Elias just needs to tell him this again.)

“Kailangan kita, ngayon.”

Elias grabs the illustrado by his expensive clothing. “Huwag ninyong bibiruin ang tadhana, Ginoo.”

“Elias,” Ibarra breathes.

 

The water bleeds red.

_Gunshots. Crashing, crackling sounds._

_You might hold your breath, until your breathing stops forever._ _  
_The only thing you get is this curse on your lips: I hope they taste of me forever.__

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saaille).


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